CHAPTER VIII.
THE TANSY CHEESE.
You are not to suppose from this that I became a good girl the very next day. No, nor the day after. I ceased from the wickedness of telling lies, just as I had stopped pilfering sweetmeats. This was all; but it was certainly better than nothing.
I was soon able to play once more, only I could not run as fast as usual. How pleasant it was out of doors, after my long stay in the house! The flowers and trees seemed glad to see me, and I knew the hens and cows were, and old Deacon Pettibone, the horse. I resumed my old business of hunting hens' nests, though it was some weeks before I dared jump off the scaffold, and it seemed odd enough to come down on the ladder.
"I'd twice rather have it be you that had cut your foot, Fel Allen," said I, "for you don't want to run and jump; and folks that don't want to, might just as well have a lame foot as not."
Fel couldn't quite understand that, though it was as clear to me as A B C. And after all my suffering, she wouldn't own I was as "delicate" as she. I didn't like that.
"You don't remember how many bad things have happened to me," said I, waving my thimble-finger, which had lost its tip-end in the corn-sheller.
"Well, Ned's going to give you a gold thimble to pay for that, and I suppose you're glad it's cut off," said Fel, who had never met with an accident in her life, and was naturally ashamed of not having a single scar or bruise on her little white body, not so much as a wart or pimple to show me. I could not help feeling my superiority sometimes, for I had been cut and burnt, and smashed and scalded, and bore the marks of it, too.
"Well, but you don't have so bad headaches as me," said Fel, recovering her self-esteem. "Your mamma never has to put mustard pace on your feet, and squeeze up burdock leaves and tie 'em on your head, now, does she?"